


Bittersweet

by San



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/San/pseuds/San
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Try, and try again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This is FICTION! Anyone who believes otherwise needs a reality check.

Nick leaned back in the chair in the darkened hotel room, resting his already-warming shot of Stoli against his cheek. The cool was soothing after the heat of the day -- only in Los Angeles could one expect to face 90 degree heat in the middle of January -- and it also took some of the ache from his sinuses.

He brought the glass to his lips without opening his eyes, and tossed the shot back. The heat of the alcohol burned down his throat to his belly; it always amazed him that no matter how close the vodka was to freezing, it still seared.

He leaned forward slightly, reaching for the bottle with eyes still closed. He didn't need to look; old habits had kept the bottle right where he expected it, and his long fingers easily wrapped around its cool neck, his index finger right up against the lip.

As he lifted the bottle his eyes opened a crack and he tilted it toward the thin line the streetlights shed through the drawn curtains. One carefully plucked eyebrow rose.

 _Three-quarters empty already,_ he thought, green eyes sliding closed again, _I must be more stoned than I thought._

Here was a state he was prepared to cope with, though. Brain still on fire and wired from the two lines of coke he'd done earlier, but that edge cut by the lassitude the alcohol created in his body. Neither sensation left room for much else.

 _And neither will the hangover tomorrow,_ came the thought, acidic enough to eat through the haze. _Still..._

He shrugged at himself, absently running one fingertip along his nose before sitting upright and opening his eyes to carefully pour himself another shot. The coke had been a luxury, one he seldom indulged in, but tonight it had somehow seemed appropriate. If he were going to self-destruct, he might as well go out in glory.

A familiar, almost hollow feeling in his sinuses alerted him, and he quickly set both bottle and glass down before bringing one hand up to pinch at his nostrils.

He wasn't quite quick enough, and a drop of blood fell dark on his hand as he swore softly, grabbing a tissue off the end-table to block his nose. He tipped his head back, feeling the blood slip down the back of his throat, and couldn't quite decide if the nausea was due to that sensation or lingering disgust with himself.

After three tissues the flow had stopped, and Nick downed the shot he'd poured to get rid of the coppery tang left in the back of his throat, then carefully pushed his way to his feet. Sparks exploded in his head and he wobbled for a moment, reaching out blindly for the back of the chair. The fabric was soft and still warm from the heat of his body, and reassuringly solid under his shaking hand. When the room stopped spinning he opened his eyes cautiously and headed for the bathroom.

His eyes were adjusted enough to the darkness that he didn't bother to turn the light on, just turned the water on cold and washed off his hands, then cupped one hand under the water to splash some on his face and clean off his upper lip. He gripped the edge of the sink as another wave of dizziness passed over him, leaving him weak at the knees. He knew he shouldn't do this to himself, he knew the kind of damage he was doing, but tonight he couldn't drag up the energy to care.

He smiled bitterly at the dim shape of his reflection in the bathroom mirror, knowing he would hate himself in the morning. The last time he'd felt this low there had been someone he could turn to, but even that was denied him now. He hadn't thought things through; although he and Madeline had been falling apart for months he could have fought to keep them afloat at least through the end of this mini-tour. Or at least until they had finished in the States.

 _Why do we always end things in California?_ he wondered, bending over to splash his face again. _Is it just tradition, a hangover from the high of the Tiger tour, or just that this seems like the end of the world sometimes._

He straightened up suddenly and turned off the water. His heart raced as his ears strained to hear around its rapid drumming.

For a moment there was silence and he almost managed to convince himself it was nothing -- _it's just the coke, making you paranoid_ \-- until he heard another noise.

The soft click of the hotel room door closing.

He sank to a crouch on the bathroom floor, heart throbbing so hard he feared it might burst.

 _Taji?_ He wondered, fear a palpable presence in the room with him. Christ, he'd never forgive himself if his daughter saw him like this. She'd been through enough with the divorce. But no, he was in L.A., not London, and Tatjianna was with her mother, and would be for the next six weeks at least. Whoever was there, it couldn't be his little girl.

His hands blindly searched the bathroom floor for something to use as a weapon, as he tried to keep his ragged breathing as quiet as possible. He could just see the headlines.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself, feeling the knife edge of panic under the intoxicants slowing his system. _It's probably just the maid, for Christ's sake._ Except he _knew_ he'd left the "Do not disturb" sign out.

Whoever was in the front room had stopped moving around; Nick heard the sloshing thump of the Stoli bottle being set back on the end table and then silence. He contemplated this for a moment, fighting back the cocaine-inspired paranoia as his fear began to shift to anger.

He forced himself to stand, hands instinctively smoothing his shirt and trousers, and stepped out of the bathroom. He wasn't a fighter, fuck, they could have anything they wanted if whoever it was would just get out and leave him alone.

He reached behind him and snapped on the bathroom light, sending his senses reeling again as the fluorescent glow spilled out into the suite.

 _Clever,_ he thought, irritated, as he blinked away the dazzle. _Blind yourself as well as the intruder._

The tall form near the chair had also recoiled from the light, bringing one hand up to shield his eyes. Nick's heart reassumed a position in his throat and he struggled to form words around his anger.

"Fuck, John, you scared the shit out of me," he managed to snap out, bringing one thumb up to brush the moisture away from his upper lip.

"Sorry," John replied mildly but not quite apologetically.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Nick demanded, leaning back against the door frame weakly and folding his arms.

John shrugged, the old easy gesture, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I convinced the maid to let me in," he answered, flashing his charming smile as he perched on the chair between Nick and the bottle of vodka. Nick scowled as one of John's knees poked through the ratty jeans he was wearing.

"No, I meant here," Nick said, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Seeing John, or the sudden light, had re-awakened the throbbing headache that had started his evening. "Thought you were done with us."

"Charley and Warren called me." John said, watching him closely

"I see," Nick said, surprised that his tone could be so even. "I can't imagine what they said to drag you back," he continued, watching John from the corner of his eye. He was pleased to see John flinch as the words hit the target.

"It wasn't just them," came the reply, John's voice carefully neutral.

Nick sighed, and John echoed him.

"No? What was it, then?" _There's nothing between us anymore, John, don't you remember?_ I _certainly haven't forgotten._ John shrugged again, and Nick pushed himself off the wall angrily. The shock of adrenaline had burned most of the buzz off, and where he wouldn't -- couldn't, really -- draw up a line in front of John he could certainly finish the bottle of Stoli.

"I wanted to see you," John said, head tilted slightly as he watched Nick draw closer.

"Must have been some story they told you," He said, stepping to the side, coming within arm's-reach of John only by necessity, wondering how much Charley and Warren would have told John as he reached for the bottle and glass.

"Drink?" he offered as his hand slipped around the cool, smooth neck of the bottle. "Or don't you do that anymore?"

The words caught in his throat as John's callused hand closed tightly around his wrist. The flash of anger was no surprise, but he was held motionless for a moment by the wave of heat that ran from that touch down his spine. He was grateful for the darkness of the room as his face flushed at what had once been a significant gesture between the two of them, and he twisted his arm in an effort to free himself.

John's hands were strong, though, and the grip did not ease as he stood and took a step forward. Nick caught himself automatically leaning into the grip and angrily stepped back, bottle still clutched in his captive hand.

"I rather think you've had enough," John commented, trying to catch Nick's gaze.

"And here I thought we might celebrate," he snarled, avoiding John's eyes as he tried again to pull away. His head spun with the need for another drink, a line, the rough press of John's hands against the rest of his body -- he twisted in John's grip again, forcing the image from his mind. "Damn you, let go."

John silently reached across and took the bottle from Nick's hand, then set it on the table behind him, eyes never leaving Nick's face.

"Nick," he finally essayed, cautiously, still keeping his voice smooth and low, using that and the shadows so Nick had no hint of his feelings, "we're worried."

"So? You gave up that right when you left," Nick growled.

"It isn't that simple," John started, using the grip on Nick's wrist to try and draw him closer.

"Of course it is," Nick answered, resisting the not-so gentle pressure. "You divorced us."

"I left the band. It's not the same thing," John said defensively.

"Isn't it?" Nick demanded. "You haven't called."

"No, I haven't," John said, drawing in a deep breath. "I didn't come here for a fight, Nick."

Nick rolled his eyes and shook his head at John.

"No, you came because you were worried. You needn't be. I'm _fine._ "

"I'm not so sure," John responded.

"Look, Nigel, you washed your hands of this six months ago."

Startled, John's grip eased, and Nick pulled away and retreated a few steps. "You haven't called me that in years," he observed.

"What? Nigel? I thought that was what you were going by these days."

"Sort of, but--" Nick glanced up to find John less than an arm's length away, eyebrows raised. "I didn't expect you to know."

Nick looked away, anger drifting away like so much dust being blown off a mirror.

"I do," he said dully. "I even check out the B5 website now and then."

"Oh," John said, his voice small.

Silence fell like night across the room, broken only by the constant hum of cars on the road outside.

Nick pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to assuage the throbbing in his head. He could feel John's proximity, could even catch the faint odor of the woody cologne John wore, of the scent of his skin. He sank to the floor, pressing his forehead against his knees.

He heard John sigh and settle to the floor next to him, and felt the gentle pressure of John's hand on his back.

"Don't," Nick said, annoyed by the tremor in his voice.

"You aren't fooling me," John answered, but withdrew his hand. Nick turned his head so he could look at John's face. He swallowed, fighting back the knot in his throat at the concern he saw in John's brown eyes. He saw John draw in another deep breath, one hand half-reaching for Nick.

"Tell me?"

Nick shook his head. "Not much to tell," he answered. "Everything and nothing, you know."

John smiled sadly.

Nick looked away from him, out over his knees. "Maddie's gone," he said, finally, then swallowed against the sudden dry throat that rendered him hoarse.

"I'm sorry," John said softly, reaching out to set a hand on his shoulder.

"It's probably for the best," Nick said, unconsciously leaning into John's touch. "She was never really committed to the relationship, you know. And I went through too much with Julie Anne to want to repeat my mistakes."

"So you went on a binge," John said, rubbing Nick's back and pulling him closer against his side. "Don't try and tell me otherwise. You look like hell."

"Thanks," Nick said wryly, resting his head on John's shoulder. "That's a wonderful way to avoid an argument."

John brought his free hand up to gently brush Nick's hair off his forehead. "Sorry," he said, cupping Nick's cheek in his hand. He frowned slightly.

"What is it?" Nick asked, warily, meeting John's gaze.

"You still have blood on your lip," John answered, using his thumb to brush it away. Nick's lips parted slightly at the touch, and his eyes closed as John leaned in, continuing the caress down toward his jaw. He could feel himself trembling, wanting and not-wanting the warm familiarity of their touch, knowing he could give in to John and have the loneliness that was so much a part of him eased, if only for a night.

He melted into John's embrace, lost in the crushing sweetness of John's mouth on his.

John's hand slid from his cheek as the kiss continued, and Nick shivered as the callused fingertips gently closed over his nape. His own arms slid around John's back involuntarily as the old fire began its slow burn through his body, starting from his lips down his spine to his groin and through his limbs until even his fingers and toes tingled  
with it. John always awakened this level of passion in him; something that no-one else could reach, not Julie, certainly not Madeline. It never felt this right with anyone else, no matter how Nick pretended.

John gently pulled Nick's shirt free of his slacks even as he drew Nick closer against him. The fingers slid under his shirt, warm and firm against the smooth skin of his back, setting their own waves of breaking desire in counterpoint to those started by the kiss. Nick moaned into John's mouth, all rational thought cast to the wind.

"God, Nick, I want you," John said, breaking the kiss, his voice raw with his own desire, "I want us."

Anger flared over Nick like lightning at the words, and he spoke from the shocking emotion without thinking.

"There is no us anymore, Nigel," he said, the words tightly clipped, as he pushed John's lean body away. He looked at the floor as John's arm tightened around his back.

"Nick," John started, reaching up to brush Nick's cheek.

"Oh no. No, no, no. No way," Nick said, pulling his head away, jaw set. "I'm no fool. I'm not going to wake up in the morning and find you gone again. And I don't want a pity fuck because Madeline was screwing around," he continued, breaking their embrace by forcing his way to his feet.

"That isn't what this is about," John tried again, looking up at Nick from the floor as he stumbled to the chair and practically fell into it. Nick's head was spinning, his body still demanding more of John, and he poured another shot and downed it, using its icy heat to steady himself.

"No? Then what?" he spat. "You've re-discovered your sex drive, I'm in town, safe and convenient?"

John flinched, but got to his feet and followed Nick.

"I probably deserved that," he said quietly, "but Nick, will you _please_ listen to me?"

Nick glared at him as John knelt by his side, folding his long arms over the chair's and resting his chin on them. "I'm listening," he ground out.

John rubbed at the side of his nose, then straightened his glasses from where he'd knocked them askew.

"This hasn't gone at all the way I wanted. I'm sorry, Nick," he started, licking the corner of his mouth hesitantly, "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"There's something new," Nick said, bitterly, then looked at his hands, away from John's exasperated look. "Sorry," he muttered.

"You said you were going to listen."

Nick glared at him, but maintained his silence.

John sighed. "I thought I knew what I wanted all those years ago, Nick," he said, sending a wash of cold through Nick. "I don't have any excuses for the way I behaved, and I know how betrayed you felt. I can only say I'm sorry I hurt you, and I was wrong. You deserved better from me.

"Now," he hesitated again, and fear trailed up Nick's spine, "I'm so much clearer, Nick. I know who I am; I'm not drowning in an image I never created. For the first time, _ever,_ I know what I want.

"I want another chance. I want there to be an 'us' again," John said, looking into Nick's face, seeking something he wasn't finding, "Christ, I don't know how it will work, because I _can't_ leave Los Angeles and you won't leave London or Duran -- not that I'd ask you to, Nick I know how important Taji is to you, and the band -- but I want to try."

Nick had closed his eyes halfway through John's speech, something cold and heavy coiling in his gut, and when he was sure John had finished he spoke without opening them.

"It's too late for that, Nigel," he said, his voice dark and strained and strange even to himself. "You don't want my heart."

"Nick," John sighed, his voice echoing the ache of Nick's emotions.

"Oh, it's all right, Jo -- Nigel," he said, correcting himself in mid-name, "You're in good company. No one else seems interested in it either.

"I don't even have much use for it anymore," he finished wearily.

Nick heard John shift, and his eyes opened as John took his hand, twining his fingers tightly around Nick's, his thumb gently rubbing the back of Nick's hand. He looked at John's face, but he'd shifted to sit at Nick's feet and the bathroom light was behind him, hiding his features in shadow.

"I don't believe that," John whispered, bringing their joined hands up to touch his cheek. Nick's throat tightened as he felt dampness there, realized that John was crying. "I want it, Nick. I always have."

"Nigel," Nick started, then stopped, not sure what he wanted to say, afraid if he continued either the confession or the desperate plea would win out. He started to sit up, to face John so he could see his expression.

"I'm serious. I was too young and stupid and coke-addled to realize how--" John hesitated, casting about for a word, "how complete I feel with you."

Nick drew a deep, shaky breath. "I was younger than you were, and I knew."

John shook his head. "You were a lot wiser than I was."

Nick sat silently, his breathing uneven as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

"Please, Nick. I love you. I don't want to lose you again."

The words and the hopeless lost expression in John's brown eyes tore away the last shreds of Nick's self-control, and he leaned over to press his cheek against their joined hands.

"I have always loved you," he whispered, before their lips met briefly, their tears mixing, bitter with the sweetness of the kiss.


End file.
